Vows
by EleanorK
Summary: Inspired by events from "Paint It Black" (episode 16, season 10)


Later, when he felt overwhelmed with sorrow, he would think about it and it would make him happy. It was a true good deed, of all the things he had done in service of being good. Saving people, hunting things, yeah, right. If he was honest with himself, all of that was more about him than goodness, than the people being saved.

What he had done with Matthias, though: that was something else. Entirely for her. At least that had been his original intention.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed it. It had hardly been a sacrifice on his part. Not even close. But in the long list of women he'd been with, the chicks he'd met at bars and motels and on other grubby places on the road, there had been, predictably, a difference with Matthias.

The entire experience felt good, yes. But also, it was something more. Something beyond sex, and bodies.

He wouldn't have used the word that best described it. Holy.

* * *

She was a pretty woman, from what he could see of her, what with the grey swoopy robe that swamped her frame. Her face was lovely and open. Honest in a way that made him realize he almost never saw that in any face he sought out for a good time.

But that wasn't the part he liked most. The best part of Sister Matthias was her fearlessness. He loved that in a woman. It was something he wanted in every woman, in any woman he'd imagine spending his life with. Though he didn't imagine that too often; it was impossible, it wasn't in the cards.

Her fearlessness. Her ease with the forces around them, the ghosts. Her care and comfort with them, even her enjoyment of their company. It wasn't something he'd ever had with any of the shit they hunted down and destroyed. It scared him, too, if he was being truthful. It scared him when his brother didn't seek to destroy the shadows they sought. Maybe he was a man who lived out of the back of his trunk, maybe he had only enough roots to stick by Sam and his vocation, but he was a man who liked straight, clear lines. Rules. Simple decisions.

Matthias' way was not his way. But her bravery? That part he envied. That part was what brought him back to the church after they'd destroyed the painting. He wanted to tell her, maybe not in words, maybe in just one last look, that he found in her life, her choices, her ties to the church and to God and to the betterment of others - all of it was heroic.

But when he arrived at the church, it was empty. There was the evidence of the fire, police tape, some broken trash being hauled out on the step. A worker told him to check the rectory next door and when he came in, he nearly collided with a grinning, disheveled man walking out with a plate of hot biscuits and sweet corn. The community meal for the homeless was just ending and Matthias was in the kitchen, untying her apron and settling her palms on the stainless steel counter of the serving area, sighing.

He watched her for a minute. Fearful. He had told the priest so many things he had never been able to say to any other person. He had considered all that life had stomped out of him, all the possibilities. All the deeds he did for people that lived oblivious of their importance. His own need to be a hero left him with very little. He rarely saw the faces of those he served. He had no roots, no sense of history, no place he called his own. And neither did Matthias, technically. Except in giving everything up for herself, she somehow seemed to have so much more than him.

"Mr. Winchester?"

He snapped to, his body immediately at the ready.

"Have you come for dinner?"

"No, ma'am," he said. "I'm...I'm good."

She folded her apron into a tidy square, adjusted her habit over her face. Her hair was glossy, he could see, from the gap around her face. Nuns didn't wear the penguin suit much anymore; hers made her look out of time, from a different universe, almost.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"I want to talk to you about something," he began. "I wanted to...Well. It's hard to know where to start."

She came around toward him, bringing the smell of sweet corn and floured bread with her. She touched his wrist, between his jacket and his watch.

"Let us have a proper drink then," she said. "Come."

He followed her out a backstep, through a courtyard full of blooming flowers and trees, and into a dark alcove. He felt tense and nervous. He almost wanted to flee. But he would not run from a woman of God. He could do nothing but follow her, and she continued up a dark wooden stair case with an iron railing that was cool under his hand. She brought him through her room, the only furniture a small grey bed, a desk and chair, and a wooden chest. From a cupboard above a white sink, she fetched two glasses and a bottle of something dark.

"Nuns drink?" he asked, seeing what she poured into the glasses. A nice-looking whiskey, from the color. Deep brown and mysterious. Like her eyes.

"Nuns do lots of things nobody expects," she said, sighing. "Forgive me; it's been a trying couple of days. Come out into the balcony," she added. "The air is nice and I can look at the stars while you tell me your difficult things." She stepped up on a wooden chest and slid open the window to the outside.

"Difficult...? No, it's just..."

She swirled ahead of him, her gray garment a whisk of kitchen smells and hidden flowers. He struggled through the window; he was much bigger than she.

They sat on a wooden bench, sipping their whiskey. It was good. Old, like the churchyard below them. He felt her lean back against the bench. She held her whiskey in a coil around her neat, pale hands and for a moment, he did what she had said she would do: he looked at the stars instead of at her. After a while, the fresh breeze give him courage.

"I want to tell you," he began. "I mean, I want to ask. What's it like, living the way you do?"

She sighed, then smiled at him. "Everyone asks that."

"No," he said, hating that she thought he was like everyone else. "I mean, the way you accept, and even welcome, the ghosts? All these things that the rest of the world is so freaked out about that they act like they don't exist?"

"They don't exist, for most people," she said. "They couldn't, even if they imagine it. They just cannot live on those terms. The world is frightening, Mr. Winchester, and..."

"Call me Dean."

"The world is frightening, Dean," she said again. His name in her mouth was cautious, slow. "And people are overwhelmed by the forces of good and evil. They cannot stand to think that their choices have so much power. That their attention could matter, their care. That their witness to someone's sorrow, or pain, might be a source of goodness that others need so desperately."

"Yeah, but..."

"It's the desperation, the enormity of the world's misery, that makes it so I live the way I do. I am open to all. I am hoping to do my part, and to be patient. To see how the small seeds come to flower. To feel the anxiety of how something little could turn, just one degree that way or this way, and make someone's burden lighter. I can do that work because I try to leave my own desperation behind me."

He sat for a moment with her words. He noticed her hand trembling this time as she lifted her glass to her mouth. And then he noticed her mouth: full, pink, wet with the same medicine he ended most of his days with. Later, he thought this might have been the moment she crossed over, made the decision to be with him. It was a mystery he entertained at times, when he couldn't sleep and felt especially lonely.

"But what about you? What you need? Who takes care of you?"

"God."

"But what if He..."

She laughed and set her empty glass at their feet with a bright clink. "What if He is not enough? But isn't that the point? He isn't. That is why He has us. You and I. That is what makes it so beautiful, doing this work. We are all necessary, we are all important in this way. Don't you see?"

He nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. It was just that he and his brother went about it totally differently than she did. They leaned on each other and hoped that silence tempered by a little booze and distraction would fill in the rest of the cracks. While she, Matthias, toiled through the shit all on her own. Or with God.

 _Same difference._

"What did you really want to know, Dean?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly. "Now that we've got the complicated theology out of the way."

He stared at her, then. Her pretty face, simple, honest, facing his. Telling her she was heroic seemed so...nothing. Such a sad compliment. Unworthy.

"I don't want to know anything," he said. "I want to give you something."

Slowly, he extended out his hand toward hers.

Her mouth opened, a surprised little circle. Her fingers linked with his, clutching tightly, like she was afraid they'd be caught.

"Can I?" he asked, leaning toward her. Their mouths less than an inch apart.

"Yes," she answered. "Please."

* * *

His brain was a knot of questions and his hands were skittish and hesitant. There was the matter of her habit, and him being completely unable to figure out what to undo, untie, unbutton. And there was the matter that kissing her felt complete in itself. Her mouth was so soft, her tongue, shy and sweet.

But her hands were not shy. Now back inside, away from anyone's eyes, they were gripping him in a way that couldn't be called sweet. No, she was sure and strong, her palms around his shoulders, sweeping down his back. Her body shook beneath the mystery of her habit. He wasn't sure he could stand it, seeing her naked. If he would be struck down right there, by whatever force of heaven that would decide him unworthy of her.

She clearly thought him worthy, though. And with a few swishes and whirls, her habit became a pile on the floor at their feet. Beneath it was a white cotton tank, which looked like an antique; the cotton was so smooth it shined. Below was a pair of white panties, also cotton.

"Yes?" she said, as he looked at her, down her bare legs, to her unpainted toes on her tiny feet. "Is this all right?"

He gulped. "Uh huh," he said.

She put her hands on her hips and he could see her little nipples under the white cotton. "Can I undress you?"

"Yes," he said. And he sat down on the narrow bed, the springs squeaking as he did so. She stood before him, pushing his jacket from his shoulders, her fingers setting to his shirt buttons, flicking against his neck and chest in a way that was unbelievably tempting but he doubted she would believe him if he told her so. Her lips followed her fingers, shy and thorough, careful to not neglect anything that needed attention.

When she had taken off his shirt, though, he had had enough of being served.

He stood, and loomed over her, his hands sliding up the back of the cotton tank and pulling it over her head. Her breasts weren't big, but they were fuller than he'd imagined and the idea that she didn't wear a bra under all those yards of fabric made his dick even harder than it already was. He put his hands on her waist and pressed her toward him, the crucifix around her neck pressing against his belly.

"Oh, I should take that off."

"No," he said, lifting her up against him, his hands under her ass as she startled and wobbled from the sudden movement.

They stared at each other through the dark room. He could feel her warmth between her legs and he knew that this would be just once. Just one time, and nothing again, and for that reason, he would make sure it counted.

"Leave it on," he said. "It's part of who you are."

He laid her back on the bed carefully. Her hair was still held back in a tie, and he could see that it was uncomfortable to lie on. He reached back and slipped the elastic off, spreading her hair around her shoulders and the pillow.

"I've never done this," she whispered. "Kissing, yes. But never the rest."

"It'll be good," he said. "I promise."

"I know that," she said, her voice nervous and quick. "I just want to do the right things for you."

"You don't have to do anything for me, sweetheart," he said, his face at her neck, her collarbone, her beautiful breasts. "Let me take of everything."

She shivered, but she was smiling. "You struck me as a man who knew his way around this part of the world."

He laughed, kissed her until she gasped.

"I know a few things," he said.

* * *

Over time, the entire memory would become precious to him. One he didn't take out too often, because its singularity hurt him. And like her, he didn't want to bruise it with frequent handling.

But the part when he pulled down her panties and looked at her fully, her entire pale body open to him on the grey blanket? That was one of his favorites. It was like getting to see something beautiful after waiting a long time, something nobody had ever seen before. The light from the balcony window on the curves of her belly, the curves of her face covered by her wrist, the shadows between her legs, untouched and pure. The crucifix between her breasts twinkling with every breath she took. The minutes before were just as perfect as the minutes after.

The skin of her thighs so smooth, the muscles of her legs firm and sturdy. She was a woman, soft where he was hard, yielding, as she opened herself to him, his mouth running little kisses and nips along her belly and the inside of her thighs. But she was not weak at all. He could feel it in her muscles. Her life was about work and service and being upright and responsible to the people who needed her, and maybe that was strange, but he could feel that in every inch of her, as he lay between her legs and kissed her there, the curls springing up everywhere as if they too were modest about what he was doing.

"Oh," she said. "Dean."

"Yeah," he said, and kept at it, her body becoming more and more pliant and juicy as he sucked and licked. She tasted sinful. Like honey, like whiskey, like spice. But not really like any of those things. Pussy was pussy, and the fact that it had no true comparison was part of why he loved going down on women.

He was slow, experimental. Feeling for her shifting and tensing and her stomach shivering, sending him the messages he needed to know that he was going in the right direction. It felt like pure luxury. Like fine-tuning an engine, listening for that specific purr, that exact click. It was delicious, hearing all the right noises lock into place.

"You are very..." she began. But then she was overcome, shaking; she was nothing but bits of words cut off by sighs. Her eyes shut and her hands curled around his ears gently, then roughly, as he could feel her belly tighten beneath his palm, and then sure enough, he slid a fingertip inside her and felt the contraction there too as her head tilted up and her legs clamped down.

 _That's right,_ he thought. _That's exactly what I meant to say._

Watching her breathe, gasp, pant, her eyes shut, he lifted himself over her, a bridge above her trembling body. Her nipples in tight puckers, her lips bowed open, her own palm over her belly, as if she couldn't believe what had happened inside her either.

After a minute, Matthias opened her eyes. The look on her face? Another of his favorite moments.

* * *

He was so hard and so desperate but he couldn't let on. There was no way to hide the state of his dick but he would not push into her like some greedy asshole. He let her sit up and her got her a glass of water and he sat back on her bed, propping the one pillow behind him as if this were casual and they did this all the time. He watched her stand completely naked before him, her left hip jutting slightly as she drank the water, and again felt that hot pride: she was all his, only his. He had seen many things in this world that no one else had, but they were mostly horrors. This woman, drinking water in her small room, her body flushed and beautiful, was the rare exception. He was being given this gift, by her, or by God. He didn't know and did it really matter, anyway? Hadn't he just confessed to wanting more from life? Better?

She set the glass on the nightstand; it wobbled on top of a pile of books. Then she climbed over his lap and sat on top of him, a move that was quick and spontaneous. She giggled. He could feel her wet pussy so close to his dick; it was like Christmas, Easter and the last day of school all in one go.

He thought she would speak; women often got chatty after they came. They whispered silly things, they told you secrets, asked you lots of questions. Depending on the woman, that part could be just as fun as anything else you did without any clothes on.

But Matthias was silent. She ringed her hands around his neck and pressed her mouth slowly across his shoulders, over his chin, on his cheeks and forehead and lips. And he knew she was crying; he could feel the odd drip of tears as she moved along kissing him everywhere, but he guessed she thought it was invisible here in the dark. A good man would probably inquire: _why are you crying? Are you okay?_ But he could feel, his fingertips on her sweat-sticky back, that she was okay. Everything was okay. More than that, even. Hence, the tears. There was nothing he could do to make them go away, or make them happy tears, or make the past not be what it was, make the future change into something else. The minutes on his watch clicked ahead into that future, where they both could not be.

Then she began rubbing against him. Her pussy soft against the base of his dick. Well. That was something he hadn't guessed she'd known much about. But it was also possible that it was only her body being honest, just like the rest of her. She did it because it felt good. Natural. Her breasts pushed against his chest, and her wetness against his dick was pretty much the best thing he'd ever felt. And she held him, her hands gripping around his shoulders, like they'd been together for years. Spent many nights just like this: a drink on the balcony, then undressing each other.

He loved the slow way it all unfolded.

"We need a condom," she said.

"Yes. Probably don't have any of those here, huh?" He laughed lightly. "Can't imagine Sister Matthias buying those on a grocery run."

"Don't call me that name tonight, okay?" she said. "That's not..."

"Your real name?"

"No, it _is_ my real name," she said. "That's the problem."

"What was your original name?"

"No," she said. "Let's not do that, please."

He nodded, not really understanding, but knowing he'd hit a sore spot.

She tossed her head, her glossy hair shaking around her shoulders. "Anyway, as I was saying. We have people that work with us for community meal, who leave us street survival packs for the people we serve. Toothpaste, socks, handwipes, granola bars. And condoms."

He slid his hands up and down her back, feeling the strength there, the curve of her spine. "No virgins" had been a rule for him for many years but in every way this was different.

"Let those homeless dudes have their stuff," he said. "I've got us covered."

* * *

He got a condom from his jacket. He didn't like to think about how he was usually loaded up in that respect; he was glad to see there was only one in his pocket. But part of him wanted her to see every bit of sex, all of its problems and obstacles. Part of him wanted her to be ready for whatever might happen after he was gone. Another part of him couldn't bear to imagine that.

Sitting on her bed, he unwrapped the condom and unrolled it down his dick. She stood before him, watching him do it. He felt a little shy, being so balls-out about it in front of her - _literally_ , he thought, wanting to laugh - but the look in her eyes was worth it.

"Now come and kiss me," he said, reaching for her, grabbing her ass toward him, wanting to be ahead of her before she felt out of step with what was happening. Her body trembled under his hands but her mouth devoured his, happy to do something she was comfortable with again. He gathered her against him, running his hands all over her, getting a new sense of her body. She wasn't a curvy woman, but she was made of tough stuff: a strong back, tight muscles, an ass that was firm and fit right beneath his palms. She was everything a man could want in his bed, but she belonged to no man. She never would. Could that make him want her more than any other woman? Possibly. Probably.

It didn't matter. She was his, for now. Here.

When he had kissed his fill and thought his chest might burst from wanting her, he slid back, pulled her over him. He laid down on her bed, knocked the pillow on the floor.

"Yes," he said, as she settled over him, her pussy brushing his dick.

"This is how you want me?"

"Exactly," he said, pushing his palms down her hips and fitting himself at her entrance.

And here was the problem with the condom, for him. It usually felt disconnected to him, like sex through a glass window, instead of full-on.

But in this situation, he felt at ease. That it was a good thing, keeping him from going off too soon. And letting her set the rhythm, learn the moves she liked best. Which was the part he'd return to again, in his memory: her easing onto his dick, her palms capping his shoulders for balance, the small jump of her breasts as she found the right tempo, the look in her eyes as she took him all the way. God. She used his dick like it was a new invention, a toy, something made just for her, something she didn't have to share or hand out to strangers, something she didn't have to justify to anyone but the feelings inside her.

Her knees ground down around his hips, and she leaned back, sliding up and down on his cock, slowly, like she couldn't believe it. The smile on her face! She was so pleased, so surprised. He had expected her to hurt, or ask to stop, but there had been no hitch, no complaint. It was as if they were made for each other, the perfect size, an equal match.

He watched her grind on his body, her eyes open and shut. He barely had to do anything but keep her steady on him; it felt almost neglectful how little he had to do. He considered reaching toward her clit, teasing her, but then he had a better idea. He took her one of her hands, and kissed it, and she smiled at him, so pleased, as if that had some part of the sexual dance they were doing, too. But then he pressed her fingers above where they were joined.

"See if you like that," he said. She nodded. She was obedient, after all. But in this, she was also fearless; so many women were focused on performing when it came to sex. They didn't care about getting off as long as they looked sexy. He didn't need Matthias to _look_ sexy. He needed her to _feel_ it. Honestly, truly.

He put his arms behind his neck and watched her try it. It didn't seem like a new concept, actually; she started pressing and squeezing herself in a way that suggested she'd done it before. Probably right here, in this modest little bed, all by herself. The sight of it made him want to turn her over and fuck her until she screamed. Or he screamed. Something told him Matthias was no screamer.

She touched herself, but even in that she was quiet. She kept her sounds inside herself; she had lived her whole life that way, he figured. But the swallowed sighs and moans became an irresistible hum that vibrated through her whole body, and soon enough, he felt it coming before she knew herself: her pussy began to flex on his dick, first around the opening, then deeper inside her. It was heavenly, not to be crass about it. But he was a crass man, after all; nothing could change that. He liked his body when it was with women's bodies; he liked unlocking the secrets that women held so close and knowing he was capable of doing good in more than one way. In a way that didn't involve destruction and blood. In this way, sex was the opposite of his life's work. Sex was the antidote to the shadows, better than whiskey and stupid movies, better than tearing down the road looking for kicks. It had meaning, if just for a while. It was good for the sake of good.

When she came, she opened her eyes. Looked down on him, one hand working her clit, the other pressing down on his belly as if to keep him back. As if to say, _This. This one thing. This all belongs to me._

* * *

He was used to sex in motels with Sam hovering nearby, waiting to be let in again. He was used to that as an excuse to dispatch the girl: "My brother's back, he wants to go to sleep." At that point, if he liked the girl especially, Dean might go back to her place for another round. But usually not. Sam wasn't a prude but neither of them could stop shoptalk for that long, and they had no interest in dragging any bystanders into their dark dealings.

But Sam was back at the motel, probably wondering where he was. Or maybe out at the bar, stealthily looking for some action: Sam liked women, but he didn't celebrate it in the same barbarian way Dean did. He'd never guess in a million years where Dean was now. Dean, the one who was indifferent about God, suspicious about angels.

Now he came back from Matthias' bathroom, having peeled off the condom. He hadn't wiped himself down. He didn't want to lose everything from this, though the second he'd come, he knew it was on its way to the end.

She stood by the balcony window, naked. Their clothes were piled on the floor in a heap that didn't match the tidiness of the rest of the place. It occurred to him how much of a hurricane he was to her. To anyone, really: how he blasted into a situation and rattled the foundations and then sped off down the road to do it all over again. He felt good, actually, knowing he was leaving, restoring her life to what she was accustomed to.

He stared at her body for a moment. All that beauty, that strength, covered in yards of dull grey, day in, day out. He wanted it every day himself. He wanted her. He wanted to lie down next to her for the rest of his life. He would stop hunting. He would forget about saving people, being a hero, persuading Sam to stay by his side. Looking at her bare body, he wanted, for the first time, a life different than the one he had.

"Are you leaving now?" she said, not turning. Her voice was bitter; he'd never heard her sound that way.

"I will if you ask me to," he said. He put his hands on her back, ran them down around her waist, settled around her hips. He felt her relax in an answer.

"I would normally have to be back in the sanctuary by 5 am," she said. "But because of what happened, because of Father Delaney's death, services aren't being held." She turned around in his arms, her hands rubbing over his chest.

"Lucky me," he said, and kissed her.

"It's a small bed," she said, between kisses. "I don't entertain guests, you see."

"Understandable," he said, lifting her up until her legs circled his waist. He could feel how wet she was again.

"It won't be comfortable," she said. "You won't get much rest."

"I'll manage," he said. "You'll see."

"I will manage, too," she said. "You make me feel wonderful." She shivered in his arms.

"You made yourself feel that, darling," he said.

She laughed, self-conscious. "Dean."

"What," he said, sliding her up over his stomach, feeling the warmth from her core. "You did. I was just there. A witness. You knew how to handle it."

She ducked her head, hiding her face in his chest. "I've had a lot of practice."

"Fuck," he said. "You make me so hard."

She reached down, felt him. "Oh..."

He flopped her on the bed, held himself over her. "I'm fresh out of condoms, though."

"But..."

"We're not going to raid the stash for the hobos."

"Homeless."

"Whatever."

"Then...are you are done with me, then?"

"I don't think I'll ever be done with you, darling. But we both know the truth of it."

Her eyes widened, and he felt shame for saying it. It was easier when they weren't living anywhere but in the present.

"I can...I can do what you did to me. With my mouth." She looked so uncomfortable with the words; pausing as if she was discarding the more vulgar ones.

"You don't have to do anything to me. That was the whole point. To give you..." He stopped. He felt tears coming, and he couldn't speak. He was trying to make it about her, and now she was looking at him, concerned. Making it about him. Goddammit.

She reached up, pulled him down to her so she could whisper in his ear.

"Dean," she said. "I don't care about condoms. About pregnancy. About...disease. I want you. All night. Here. Now. I want all of you, and all of me, and I don't care what happens tomorrow. I will...tomorrow I will manage that. Can we do that, please? Can we be together, and not worry about what might come?"

"But what if..."

"You and I are skilled at 'what if.' We both are capable souls."

She dropped back to the bed, her hands still around his face, brushing the stubble. It was getting late, and he was hard, and all he wanted, all he needed now, was to push into her and fuck her until he collapsed.

Her face when he did just that, just slammed right into her: another of his favorite bits. And the next moment, when her heels dug into his ass, driving him back inside her was yet another.

* * *

He made her come with his mouth, with his fingers. Many times, until she fell back to the bed and dropped off for a quick nap. When she woke, he tweaked her nipples with his teeth. She responded with great enthusiasm; she rubbed ice cubes dipped in whiskey on his cock and balls and laughed when he jumped. She licked the whiskey off them, next, and he nearly died at how quick she learned to please him. Her mouth was luscious, hungry. Again that word: sinful. It was a cliche, all her forbidden fruits. How he fantasized them only belonging to him, a caveman retrograde instinct, but he didn't care. He loved watching her suck him, on her knees while he stood by the balcony window, the moonlight on her face, her breasts. Her body bouncing slightly as she worked to make him feel good. He could barely stand it. He was bending her over seconds later, fucking her from behind, no condom, nothing between them but want, as she gripped the grey blanket and cried out like she hadn't before. Which he could understand; this angle was deeper than than the other ways, and he could feel her body shaking.

"Touch yourself again, darling," he said, his hands so rough on her hips, he worried he'd leave bruises. He eased up, only to clench her tight again. God, he was so deep into her.

"How...?"

"You know how."

"But, from this position...?"

"Just try it. See if you can."

"All right," she said. "But...stop, please, for a minute. Let me catch my breath?"

He pulled out of her, his cock shining with their juices. She was on all fours on the bed, but he watched her reach to feel herself, find her rhythm.

"I don't know," she said. "I'm...I feel shy."

"You look absolutely beautiful," he said. "And I don't think I can wait."

"But you will," she said. "Because..." She stopped, sighed. Her hand moved faster. "Because... _oh_...all right. It's...yes. Come back to me. Dean. Yes..."

He was back inside her before she finished her thought, and then both of them hit it: her first, with a strangled cry, him next with a hoarse shout.

* * *

The reason he treasured the memory of Matthias was because there was so much of it. A universe in one night. So many details, all of them important because of their impermanence. Her body couldn't be near enough, his hands couldn't touch and feel and get all that he wanted. Near dawn, he yanked open the balcony window to let in some fresh air, and she persuaded him to clean up in her tiny, sparse bathroom. He barely fit in the shower himself; he couldn't imagine her cleaning up every morning there. But smashed together in the green-tiled stall, he didn't care. They washed each others' bodies with a white bar of soap that smelled like flowers. He wish he knew the flower; it would remind him of her, in the future. Already, he was in the future, without her. But he didn't ask; he was ashamed of wanting such details.

Afterward, she handed him in a thin white towel, and dripping, she landed on her bed. Laughing again. He joined her, and the breeze from the balcony window rushed over their bodies. The first twinge of sunrise began lighting the room and that was when it happened. He started to cry and could not stop.

"I love you," he said, to her face, to her neck, to her eyes wide in shock. His body was weary from happiness, and his mind was overcome. "I love you, I love you so much."

"Dean."

"I do. I love you. I never thought I'd say it and say it so quickly. But I don't think I can do this."

"Do what?"

"Leave you."

She was silent. Her hands curled together against his chest. His tears were making his nose run.

"Don't make me," he said, sniffling. Dying of shame for sniffling but unable to stop. "I don't think I can do it. Goddammit, I love you so much. I've never...please, please, please..."

He didn't know what he was asking for anymore. What he was saying. Expecting. He felt her mouth kiss along his shoulders and collarbone. Her own tears coming now too. But he couldn't stop to comfort her. This was all supposed to be for her, but he was taking something instead. He knew it.

She remained wordless. Their tears remained constant. Slowly, she reached down for him, where he was hard again, even in his sorrow, and she slid over his hips until he was deep inside her. He took her hands in his and she pressed them back behind his head, her hands in fists around his wrists. Up and down. Deep and hard. Her shuddering sighs, his dark groans. No words, just their eyes locked onto the other. She let go of his hands and he reached up to her clit, rubbing until he felt her come, and only then did he let go himself. That was it. It had to be the last time.

A while later, lying together, listening to each other breathe in the growing light, she spoke.

"You have to go," she said. "You think you can't, but I know different. This is who we are, Dean. This is how it has to be."

"I know," he said, his voice all scraped out and hollow.

* * *

She didn't dress, but watched him as he put on his clothes. She lay curled in a pile of grey blankets, the sun now streaking across the bed. She could sleep today, at least. This once, she could rest and not rouse her body up to serve others. Just for one day.

As he tied his boots, he felt exhaustion in his body to an extreme he'd never felt before. Never after sex had he felt this way. Not even after a long job of hunting. She was nestled in her bed, with room enough for one, yet still he felt one last pull to fall into it with her and just sleep endlessly.

But Sam was waiting. The job was waiting. Reality, even their reality with all its extraordinary shadows and sins, never stopped for anyone.

He stood to leave and she opened her eyes, lazily. Sleepily. The expression she wore was of a woman greatly pleased in all ways. Another gift she gave him.

"Thank you, Dean," she said.

He leaned over and kissed her, once on the mouth, and then once on the crown of her head. And then, because to say it would surely kill him, he left her without saying goodbye, knowing that he would never forget her. And he had never even learned her real name.


End file.
